Monday, May 14, 2012

Ward Stories

A
column organized by Jack M. Freedman, Poetry Editor

This edition of Ward Stories features poetry from a couple
of sources.One of those sources is Ted
Wainer.This poem was written during a
hospital stay.Many of us can relate to
the sheer boredom that many experience within the confines of a psychiatric
ward.This in turn inspired me to share
one of my own pieces.This is a piece
that outlines my current views on the practices of psychiatry.I have done a lot of self-discovery and now
know that personally, I need alternatives in my life for my own treatment.With that said, I know there may be a lot of
people who will not agree with my statements, but I hope that City Voices will
outline a wide variety of views on psychiatry as a whole, so with that, I
present one of my poems.I hope you
enjoy this edition of Ward Stories, as well as the rest of the paper.

In These
Chains of Boredom

by Ted
Wainer

To aire,
to reap, to sow , to sleep

To sleep
within the air so fine.

To leap,
to lash between the sheets

To hate
the air that glistens through.

Yes
glistening through yet not touching it.

Healing
hands yet a smile without grace.

Without
the grace to heal the hurt

within.

Without
the power of empathy to go that last stand.

Yes
boredom resides here big time, you know.

And yes
Thomas, that’s the way it is.

Today,
tomorrow , and possibly in the future it seems.

It
leaps, it jumps, it escapes and it hits you.

It kills
at times and menaces with the scales

of your
mind.

Yet oh
those scales so ponder deep.

Pondering
deep within the realm of this insane mess.

Yes the
insanity keeps me here.

But how
sane am I in boredom.

To
laugh, to hold, to cajole and to convince.

To try
to see the light.

Yes
reading away those hours

of discontempt.

Holding
onto future grains and learning a lot

along
the way.

Yes this
field of discontempt.

This
hallway of horror.

Passing,
passing through all this

nonsense.

As I’m
bored , as I sit here writing these passages.

Hoping
for salvation, only time heals they say.

I want
immediate release, instant gratification.

And so I
wait in these chains of boredom.

Prescribe
This

by
Jack M. Freedman

I'm done with lurking behind

A
marmalade bottle

Filled
with false miracles

The ties
that bind throttle

Therefore
it is empirical

To free
yourself

From the
shackles

And the
cackles of doctors

Dictating
our treatment

Treating
us like children

Kidding us
into thinking

The pills
we chase with drinking water

Foster
recovery.

My
discovery

Of myself

Leads me
to shelf

All the
things I used to know

And let it
fall by my feet.

It would
defeat me to entreat

Corrupt
forces of mind control

Patrolling
and enrolling me

Not in the
school of hard knocks

But mental
cell blocks

With
electroshocks forced upon

By pigs
carrying glocks.

We want
rights without having to demand them

Without
day treatment programs

Where
brains get programmed like robots,

Reinforcing
paranoia

Validating
low self-esteem.

We've
moved past possessing psyches

Of
Phineas,

But can
you gauge what the future holds for us?

We've
moved past our head structures being analyzed

Past
insulin catalyzing seizures

Leisurely
knocking us unconscious at will.

The abuse
must end

And we
must suspend this systemic oppression,

Before all
of our rights undergo regression

And receive
justice

At the
sharp end of the ice pick.
FREUD CAN SUCK THE FAT END OF MY CIGAR!